Hidden Jewel (Heartfire Series) (16 page)

Not here, not like this
, her mind commanded clearly. The sleek darkness of his head rose up from her tender throat as if he had heard her. He had; kissing her again with a thoroughness that nearly made her forget herself, Micah lifted her into his arms, carried her into the dimly lit living room, and up the stairs, remembering from before which room was hers, though he had never been inside. The cool sheets rose up to meet them, a stark contrast to their heated flesh, and he lay beside her, his head full of her scent, his mind full of her. Moving away, taking a moment to catch his breath, to remove his moccasins, his shirt with careful precision despite the fearful hammer of his heart. He left his kilt in place until she wished to remove it, a barrier of sorts, in case the girl changed her mind. When he turned back to her, Micah blinked in surprise. Ailill had fallen asleep, her fingers resting on the half faded bite marks he had left on her neck.

Sighing heavily, regretting the fact very much, he lay down, watched her sleep, ignoring the damp that drifted over the room through the open window, a promise of rain. It had taken him some time to become accustomed to the mountains, the temperature in the summertime far cooler than where he had grown up, the winters so cold at times that he dreaded going out of doors, usually spent most of his time sitting near a small fire in the cabin that had been the first home in the area, before James had built the ranch;
a massive undertaking
, he mused, eyeing the heavy log beams across Ailill’s ceiling. Three stories high, the entire thing made of logs bigger around than the average man, he wondered idly how the guy had managed; it had to have taken years and James Mackintosh wasn’t even close to middle age yet. Staring over at Ailill’s face, relaxed in sleep, he noticed how much she still looked like a child. A beautiful child. The thigh-length nightie only added to the effect, the soft linen ruffle about the neckline, extremely feminine, softened the rounded swell of her breasts, diminished them somewhat. He’d been mighty surprised that she was so well endowed, her small frame blessed with a perfect hourglass figure;
but not fat
, he reminded himself with a shake, the etched lines of amazingly well-developed musculature seen clearly in the scattered bits of moonglow. Full woman, childlike innocence. And nursing a badly broken heart. He took the time to replay all that she had said, sorting the reality from the damn crazy babbling she had resorted to.
She makes no sense, none at all
; and still, he could not get her out of his mind.
Laying here ain’t helping in the least, either
, he decided, the closeness of her, the warmth,
the fact that ya almost had her twice and still have your own damn virginity to show for it.
Moving slowly from the bed, he left the room with a last wistful look, and went to search out his twin or a shower, knowing that one would be available. He needed time to think, to decide if sharing the girl might be an option he could live with, if she had been speaking honestly when she said that. “I can wait as long as it takes,” he quietly reiterated to himself. “But I will have her.”

Clash of Wills

The glaring noonday sun beat down on the damp earth, glinted off small puddles that lay beneath thick, emerald green tufts of grass that had fallen in on themselves during the previous night's downpour, giving the impression that the ground had released its hold on a treasure trove of jewels in a great whiff of steam. The heat was tremendous; the sun's fiery caress burned the backs right through shirts that clung to the sweat soaked skin of a small group of spectators who had gathered near a timber fence to watch. Most wore hats, the wide Stetson brim shading the still faces of both farmhands and Mackintoshes alike from the intensity of the bright orb as each pair of eyes beneath shifted constantly back and forth, back and forth, watching the ongoing duel with rapt attention.

Ailill had been truly angry by the time she returned home, alone, nearly an hour earlier. Obstinately refusing her father's placating offer to wait a few days, she had growled, "forget the fuckin' sticks", the wooden swords used for practice, grimly gathered up her own impeccably cared for weaponry and headed for the meadow above the stables without a backward glance. James' expectations for the night before had been too much, his demands for this day unreasonable, unfair. In her mind's eye, Ailill could see herself, locked in a never ending battle to protect her own carefully guarded innocence and the man, this stranger who had sired her, wished her to just give in; to fling her purity to the four winds at his command, as if he had ever had any right to order her about. She'd left him with a resounding
Nay!
, as well as a few choice words, only to return because the objects of her father's fascination, the twin ravens, were still at the ranch; last thing she needed was any one of her kin opening their cursed maw to the two lads whom she had stayed up talking with 'til all hours on the second night they'd stayed. No, she'd come to discover that she liked the two very much, had felt almost happy for the first time in many long months, and James had nearly succeeded in dashing it all to hell!

A tornado of raging fury from the first clash of steel on steel, Ailill was still going strong; thrusting, parrying, whirling effortlessly on her toes away from her father's jabs, thwarting any attempt he made to overtake her with an unapologetic strength and grace to rival his own.

The sun sparked off the highly polished metal of the broadswords like lightning, each clang of the blades producing a miniature blaze that fizzled out with a whiff of smoke as each molten ember fell to the wet ground. Rivers of sweat poured from the bodies of the two master duelists as each tried to outmaneuver the other; soaked from scalp to ends, the strands darkened with wet so that Ailill's gleamed deep chestnut while James' shone like black velvet beneath the sun's rays, the long manes of both dripped in a continual patter over the ground beneath their mud-spattered legs and moccasined feet, occasionally spraying outward to hit the crowd like raindrops when either of the two whirled around on a steady heel. Muscles bulged, hardened to oak with the efforts of each and Ailill's sun-browned skin glowed in the shimmering light, slick and smooth, firm and rippling; a most awesome sight.

James had been talking to her between strikes, keeping up the most annoying running commentary as he tested her ability to keep her mind on the task at hand despite distractions, despite growing exhaustion; mainly his own. While she had youth, and a dark fury, on her side, the leader of this small bit of North Carolina was far older than he seemed, than he looked. Ailill was exhausting him, with too little effort. As expected, she answered in monosyllables and growls; grunted with effort each time the man came at her from yet another angle, her breath saved for the task at hand.

"You can't handle it," he hissed; a grunt of his own followed as Ailill lashed out hard, striving to prove him wrong.

"You're too small... an itty bitty wee thing!"

"Nay...grrr."

"You need more... trainin'-wee lassie?"

"Shut up-auld-man!"

It went on like that for a long time, each remark answered with a flash of the sword. Tiring, feeling altogether winded, James thought of a new tactic to stop his seemingly tireless daughter.

"You'll marry 'em... Abby!" he gasped.

"Hmm?" she growled in return.

"The-twins," he panted. "You're gonna- marry 'em-
both
right-away." James was breathing hard, slowing down. "During the Gather," he forced through clenched teeth. "
Here
."

Taken completely by surprise, Ailill hesitated just long enough to register her own sense of shock, mere seconds, inadvertently giving James the chance he had been seeking. With the flat edge of his sword, the man whacked her across the backs of her knees, knocked her flat on her back.

From deep within her chest, an angry growl emanated instantly. Heedless of muddied water slipping down her spine, Ailill regained her feet in one fluid motion; crouched low, she met James' eye with a look of cold fury, her sword in one hand, a foot long dagger suddenly appearing in the other. "Nay,
Shaemus Morna
. I willna be
marrit
!" she spat.

"Aha! Learned a few tricks, I see." He backed up a step, grinning rather maliciously at the deadly look in her eyes, daring her to strike him a revealing blow. "And- aye, ye will,
mo gealbhan
." His words, the Scots accent clearly mocking, the rich tone of his voice was far too close to that of her own beloved teacher.

"I will
not
," she answered clearly, menacingly twirling the gleaming blade in her fist, eyes darkened nearly to black with fury, a shocking sight to those who noticed. "And
you
canna-make-me." Blinking stinging drops of sweat from her eyes, Ailill's nostrils flared, filling her own oxygen deprived lungs with searing hot air.

She lunged, both weapons swinging in widening arcs around her body, steadily advancing on her father until she had him backed into the nearby timber fencing. The small audience moved quickly, scrambling down from the railing, out of the path of the tiny woman's deadly motions, her feral expression causing a stir of unease to ripple through each and every one. With a simple flick of the wrist, she knocked the heavy sword from James' own hand and smiled for the first time since they had begun; a grin of such absolute ferocity that her father's heart skipped a beat at the sight of it. He knew exactly what their vast array of enemies saw in battle and it frightened him.

"I-win," she stated simply and thrust her own blade deep into the earth at his feet.

"You've done well,
mo nighean Sidhe
, and I've no qualms about admitting it," an admiring James stated a while later as they sat at the large kitchen table, eating a late lunch of cold roast beef sandwiches washed down with dark, rich, cool ale in heavy glass tankards. He was grinning across the table, sky-blue eyes twinkling with pride between thick, dark lashes exactly like Ailill's own.

A huge, powerful man, James had been blessed with the same grace and beauty of form, the same fiery spirit and larger than life presence that he could see whenever he looked at his daughter. Always a few paces above other men in intelligence, much more than merely handsome, throughout his youth James had stood out  amongst peers who, each, had a similar mix of genetics; as much as he did now as the leader of an ever growing village. Long of body, better made than most men, he still wore a mane as dark and glossy as Jacob and Micah's jet locks; despite being tanned to a deep golden brown, his chiseled face showed nary a wrinkle. Like every last one of his own kindred, James was an uncommonly good-looking man. Ailill smiled in return, noting an all too familiar similarity between her father and the twins in the older man's boyish grin. The smile did not reach her eyes; his admiration did not matter in the least. She doubted the sincerity of it, anyways; doubted many things in this dying land called America.

"You surprise me, little one," he added, watching closely while the girl slowly chewed. There was a white crease above her brows, the only outward sign that anything yet troubled her.

Ailill's eyes rose to meet her father's own, her expression calm, completely serious.